


cheap booze and starry eyes

by ORiley42



Category: Daredevil (TV), Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Aftermath of the Occupation of Bajor, Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Bajoran!Matt, Canon Disabled Character, Deep Space Nine - Freeform, First Meetings, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Starfleet!Foggy, conversation is romance!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:14:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25540399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ORiley42/pseuds/ORiley42
Summary: Matt and Foggy meetcute…on Deep Space Nine!!
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Comments: 26
Kudos: 48





	cheap booze and starry eyes

**Author's Note:**

> So, I’ve been writing this fic piecemeal for 700 years (or possibly 4 years…still, long enough for me to repeatedly discover it in my WIP folder and be like ??? what is this??). Once the initial idea of Daredevil + Deep Space Nine hit me in the face, the connections and fusions and references just started pouring out. Most of that nonsense is just background and not actually in this fic but could potentially show up if I ever write more of this.  
> This story here stands totally on its own, but if anyone out there actually likes it, let me know! I have so many feelings about this AU, and so many directions I could take it.   
> Anyhoo…I tried to write this story to be friendly to a Daredevil reader who isn’t familiar with Trek, though if you know Trek a lot of the little things may make more sense. If you’re a DS9 person who’s not familiar with Daredevil, I hope it would be similarly interesting for you! (also go watch both these shows if you can, they’re excellent)
> 
> And now, without any further ado, I hope you enjoy the story!

Foggy Nelson, Starfleet Lieutenant junior grade, was doing everything in his power not to visibly fidget. He and a half dozen other diplomatic attachés were waiting for the ambassador to arrive so they could disembark the USS _Venture_. Remaining still was difficult, however, considering he was pouring most of his energy into keeping his mouth shut and not babbling excitedly to the person next to him. It was a hard-fought battle, since not only was this his first deep space mission, it was also likely to be the most important Klingon-Federation peace talks since the Khitomer Accords. And he was going to be part of it! It was all just so _exciting_.

Finally, the ambassador appeared around the corner and their party lined up in the airlock to proceed onto Deep Space Nine. The massive, round, maroon door rolled ponderously aside, like the gear of an ancient clock, revealing a dark corridor and three Starfleet officers.

“Greetings, Ambassador,” the clear leader of the trio said with a polite nod. “Welcome to Deep Space Nine. I’m Captain Benjamin Sisko. This is my first officer, Major Kira Nerys,” he gestured to a slender woman in Bajoran militia red on his right, “and my science officer, Lieutenant-Commander Dax.” The captain motioned to the tall Trill woman on his left, who was wearing Starfleet blue and a subtle smile.

Dax? Foggy perked up at the name, but a quick glance around at his fellow officers didn’t reveal anyone else reacting to that information. Surely, he wasn’t the only one in a group of _diplomats_ , sent to work with _Klingons_ , who recognized that name? Maybe he was more of a history nerd than he’d thought.

The ambassador and Captain Sisko exchanged a few more pleasantries before heading off to talk in private. The Major left shortly after but Dax stuck around, smiling at the lower-ranking officers and pointing them helpfully in the direction of their quarters.

Foggy plucked up his courage and stepped forward, trying not to be thrown by the Lieutenant’s stunning beauty and air of quiet grace. “Excuse me, Lieutenant Dax? Would that be the same Dax as _Curzon_ Dax, the one who represented the Federation at the Khitomer conference in 2293 and helped negotiate the first Klingon-Federation peace treaty?” (Ok, he was definitely a history nerd.)

Dax’s smile grew wider as she replied, “The one and only. Well, technically the _eighth_ Dax, but yes, I remember the Khitomer Accords like it was yesterday. Curzon thought it was quite a party. I’m Jadzia.” She held out a hand and Foggy shook it vigorously, a two-week journey from Earth’s worth of excitement bubbling up. “I’m Lieutenant Franklin Nelson, it’s such an honor to meet you, I mean, I wrote my _dissertation_ on the astro-political context leading up the Accords, so seeing Dax in the flesh—or, I guess, in the host?—it’s like meeting…like meeting…I don’t know, Buck Bokai!”

“Buck Bokai? I can’t believe it, another fan of 21st century baseball. You should check out Captain Sisko’s hologame collection…” Jadzia trailed off with a look of dawning comprehension on her face. “Wait a minute, _Nelson_ …I know that name. I read your paper, you were the one who suggested that the existence of the Khitomer conspiracy actually helped to _expedite_ the talks, since it worked to expose the radical players on both sides who were opposed to it and ensure that they were uprooted from their positions of power.”

Foggy felt a little faint. Dax, a person who’d actually participated in the very events Foggy had studied for years, had read his work. And _remembered_ it. “Yeah, yes, that was…that was me. What did you, uh, think? Of the paper?”

“I mean, I can’t say I entirely agree with your analysis, but it’s a fascinating take on the topic. Easily the most original I’ve ever seen…and all Daxes have always valued originality.” Dax’s professional smile took on a friendly sort of quirk. “Would you want to talk more about your paper, and Khitomer, and maybe Klingons in general? I get the feeling a fresh-faced young graduate like you has never shared a plate of live gagh with a tableful of Klingon warriors.”

“ _Yes_! I mean, no, I’ve never had real gagh, and certainly not with any Klingons. But yes, it would be amazing to talk more with you—that is, if you have the time…” Foggy tried to tamp down on how obviously thrilled he was but quickly gave up, figuring his sincerity had served him well enough so far. “Honestly, I’d love to. Any insight you could give me into Klingon-Federation relations would be _invaluable_ going forward in these talks.”

“Oh, you’d better watch out, Lieutenant Nelson. You don’t want to tell an old man like me that you like hearing her stories, she might never shut up.”

“But I _do_ love stories. And please, call me Foggy.”

“Foggy? Cute name, I like it. I say we leave the gagh for another night and grab some drinks. How does twenty-one hundred at Quark’s sound?”

“Yes, great! Er…”

“Quark’s is a bar on the promenade,” Dax explained, “Big sign, run by a Ferengi, you can’t miss it.”

“Alright, 2100 it is.”

“I’ll see you then. Meet me by the Dabo tables!”

“Okay!” Foggy waved as Jadzia marched elegantly away, making Foggy feel hopelessly awkward and a little dizzy. It wasn’t until the lieutenant commander had turned the corner that Foggy realized, “What the hell are Dabo tables?”

It turned out that Dabo tables were the primary gambling mechanism in the Ferengi restaurant and bar that was the heart of the station’s promenade. It looked a little bit like roulette to Foggy; crowds of people were laughing and talking around the big spinning wheels, waving gold-pressed latinum and shouting advice at one another, with the occasional yell of “Dabo!” as someone won big. The most intriguing element of Dabo, however, was the beautiful people who leaned artfully against the tables, seductively spinning the wheels and sweetly calling whole hordes of otherwise intelligent beings to come and drop their life savings into the virtual black hole of gambling, and be happy about it. There was one young Bajoran woman in particular, with a neckline so diving it almost couldn’t qualify as a neckline, who was drawing the eye of everyone who passed within a three meter radius of her. However, Foggy’s gaze kept slipping back to her quieter, male counterpart as he settled at an empty table nearby.

The Bajoran man was, unbelievably, even less covered than the woman, sporting sheer reddish gauze over his lean form. A wandering strip of crimson velour was the only thing saving his modesty, winding its way from his ankle to his thigh, between his legs, and wrapping once around his waist before circling his neck in a manner that was admittedly quite fetching. Almost no part of his finely sculpted body was left to the imagination. But, although Foggy was naturally appreciative of his spectacular ass and washboard abs, what was really entrancing about the man was above his meager collar.

He had flawless red lips, curled into an enticing smirk as he spun the wheel. His jawline was dusted with scruff, adding a roughness to his pretty features. His hair was dark but shone with a maroon hue under the bar’s dim lighting. And his eyes—his eyes were covered by thin round lenses of the darkest scarlet, glinting mysteriously in the flashing lights of the Dabo wheel and effectively hiding his true emotions, whatever else his face may be saying to the customers. Foggy was struck by a passionate desire to earn the right to see what lay beneath those glasses.

It was at that moment, of course, while Foggy was openly ogling the handsome Dabo boy, that Lieutenant-Commander Dax showed up.

“Perhaps you’d like to take a spin at the wheel?” she suggested mildly, lips twitching in a badly suppressed smile.

“What? Me? No!” Foggy stood abruptly, knees knocking into the table in his haste, “I was just…I mean, I was only…I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Dax laughed, sitting down and gesturing for Foggy to do the same, “Why do you think I asked you to meet me here? I like to have a seat with a view. Remember, though, if you do decide to play—the first rule of Dabo is: watch the table, not the girl.” Jadzia grinned companionably at him, “Or the boy, in this case.”

Foggy managed a halfhearted laugh in response to Dax’s winking smile and felt his heartrate start to settle back down to normal meeting-your-academic-idol levels, minus the incredibly-attractive-man-in-immediate-proximity stresses. “Thank you again for taking the time to meet me, Lieutenant,” Foggy said earnestly, “It really means so much.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Dax assured him, waving down a nearby waiter and then holding up two fingers which garnered her a nod. Foggy wasn’t sure what her standing order was, or if the second one was meant for him, but he knew that as long as it wasn’t actively poisonous to humans he’d try and drink it. “And please, call me Jadzia.”

“Jadzia, then,” Foggy agreed, pleased, as the green-suited Ferengi waiter returned with two square glasses filled with a thick, pitch-black liquid.

“It’s a black hole,” Jadzia informed him, taking her glass and raising it, “I have one every morning, but they’re a good way to end the day, too.”

Foggy lifted the dark glass and clinked it against Jadzia’s, then brought it in for closer examination, trying to hide a flinch went the smell hit his nose.

“It’s a bit, um...” he coughed, hedging as he tried to think of a word to describe it that was neither a total lie nor insulting to his host.

“Pungent?” Jadzia suggested with a playful smile, “I believe that’s the word Kira used when I introduced her to it. I’ve been drinking them for about a century, so it’s safe to say it’s an acquired taste.”

Foggy took a tentative sip of the black hole and blanched, while Jadzia looked on and chuckled. With another effortless little wave, she again summoned a waiter and said, “A synthehol for my friend, here.”

Foggy beamed, partly because he was rescued from the frankly horrifying beverage, but mostly because a genial, wise, three-hundred-year-old legend had just called him her friend.

“Now,” Jadzia turned back to him with a gleam in her eye, “You want to know how to work on a treaty with the Klingons?”

Foggy nodded eagerly.

“Well, the first thing you need to know is: the only people who can really handle Klingons are other Klingons.”

Foggy deflated slightly, but Jadzia continued with a knowing smile, “That being said, individuals who possess enough honor and strength—and who don’t mind getting threatened with a d’k tagh blade or occasionally engaging in a little convivial bloodshed in the name of diplomacy—can find themselves in the good graces of one of the most spectacular species in the galaxy.”

Although oddly charmed by the way Jadzia said “convivial bloodshed” and so less concerned than usual by the casual mention of violence, Foggy still had to admit, “I’m really more of a talker than a fighter.”

“A silver tongue can be a useful weapon when wielded correctly,” Jadzia replied, “But it’s true that you have to have a tough skin when dealing with Klingons, and that’s sometimes quite literal.”

Foggy nodded seriously. “Well, I don’t know about how well my skin would hold up to _actual_ weapons, but I can take a lot of shouting, and I’m no slouch when it comes to bluffing my way to confidence.”

“That’s a good start,” Jadzia said, approving, before downing the last of her black hole and leaning forward conspiratorially. “So...I seem to recall you wanting to hear my war stories from the Khitomer negotiations?”

“Yes!” Foggy enthused, leaning forward too.

“Well, then, settle in,” Jadzia began, her centuries of life reflected in the depths of her eyes, “because Curzon had a _wild_ time. The bloodwine flowed freely, there weren’t nearly enough women for anyone’s taste, and in the end, an epic ballad was written about the great battles of cultural difference we traversed with courage on all sides.”

The next three hours were filled with their conversation—well, Jadzia talked, and Foggy oohed and ahhed with genuine excitement. He ate up every detail and almost managed to relax enough to forget that one of the coolest people in the universe (in his humble opinion) was the one sharing those details.

A yawn from Jadzia interrupted her telling of a story regarding Curzon’s exploits with a fierce and particularly curvaceous Klingon woman who, it turned out, was married to one of the ambassadors. She seemed surprised at the yawn and glanced at the time.

“Look how late it’s gotten! I must have talked your ear off, Foggy, how are you still awake?”

“Are you kidding? It’s all been _fascinating_! Even someone who wasn’t completely obsessed with this history, like me, couldn’t be bored listening to _you_ tell it.”

“You flatter me,” Jadzia grinned. “I like it. Oh! And perfect timing...” Jadzia trailed off as she craned her neck to squint at something through the crowd of people before shouting, “Hey, Murdoq!”

Foggy watched first with mild interest and then with abject fear as none other than the gorgeous Dabo boy he’d been trying and failing not to stare at during their evening melted out of the throngs of people and approached their table.

“Quick bit of advice,” Jadzia whispered to Foggy, “Dabo workers spend most of their days dealing with various customers’ unwanted advances, so if you don’t have any luck, don’t take it personally.”

Foggy goggled at her and she just gave him a bracing pat on the back, saying, “You’ll do great!”

And before Foggy could locate his ability to breathe, which seemed to have strolled out an airlock, the Dabo boy was standing in front of their table, looking even more heart-poundingly gorgeous than he had at a distance. This close, Foggy could see the finer details of the muscles rippling under his clothes (if you really could call the outfit _clothing_ , Foggy thought with ill-defined panic) and the delicate shadows cast by the bar’s low lighting on his killer jawline.

“Matt, how’re you doing?” Jadzia asked kindly, reaching up to give the newcomer’s arm a squeeze.

“Pretty good. Only had to steal my tips back from Quark twice today,” the-utterly-breathtaking-Dabo-boy-who-was-apparently-named-Matt said. “And you?”

“I’m having an excellent evening here with my new friend, Lieutenant Foggy Nelson.”

“Hi!” Foggy blurted out, raising his hand for a shake and realizing mid-movement that handshakes might not be a thing on Bajor, and so pausing with his hand sort of awkwardly extended towards Matt. But Matt just turned in his approximate direction and nodded politely, seeming to ignore Foggy’s motion, which is when Foggy realized that those ruby lenses might not just be a fashion statement. How antiquated, he thought, then wanted to smack himself for it. Talk about judging other cultures by human standards!

Foggy was quickly distracted all over again by how gracefully Matt moved when Jadzia offered him the empty seat between her and Foggy. Perhaps it was the way his outfit seemed to exude smoothness, or maybe Foggy was just biased, but it seemed that even in the simple act of sitting down he had a kind of quiet elegance, like he knew exactly where his body was in space and what he could do with it. Unlike Foggy, who finally dragged his hand back down to his lap and found himself wondering what he should do with his elbows, which seemed suddenly big and altogether in the way.

“Foggy, here, is with the diplomatic mission from Earth,” Jadzia added while Foggy tried to remember how to act like a person, “He’s assisting the Federation ambassador in the negotiations with the Klingons.”

Matt’s mouth flattened into a grave line as he said, “Important work.”

Foggy nodded, flustered, before realizing what he was doing and saying out loud, “Oh, um, yes, yes it is, I suppose. Since I can’t fight worth a damn and don’t really want to be served my kidneys on a bat’leth, might as well give peace a go.” Foggy coughed an uncomfortable laugh, but relaxed when he saw Matt’s face smooth into something close to amusement.

Matt replied dryly, “I take your point—I definitely prefer all my internal organs to _stay_ internal.”

“Exactly!” Foggy agreed, catching Jadzia’s pleased smile out of the corner of his eye.

She stood a moment later, stretching grandly. “Well, as much as I’ve enjoyed your company, I think I’d better be off to bed, I’ve got an early shift in the morning.”

“Of course,” Matt made to stand as well, but Jadzia waved her hands. “No, no, you two stay and get acquainted. I think you’ll find you have a lot in common.”

Foggy wasn’t sure exactly what a statuesque Bajoran Dabo boy and an occasionally charming junior Lieutenant who’d only left his solar system for the first time a week ago had in common, but he wasn’t about to contradict her.

“Good luck...” Jadzia said to Foggy with a significant glance in Matt’s direction, “On your _negotiations_ , of course.”

Foggy shot her a smile that was more than a little strained, and he could have sworn he heard her laugh as she patted his shoulder and left.

“So...” Matt began, his talking-to-customers confident voice undercut with a slight layer of shyness, which Foggy found both comforting and adorable, “Jadzia said you’re Starfleet.”

“Yes, yes I am,” Foggy replied brightly, because if there was one thing he could usually manage to talk about without sounding like a total idiot, it was his job. “I’m a diplomatic attaché from Starfleet’s JAG core—so, I’m basically a space lawyer,” he explained.

Matt grinned, “A space lawyer? I like that. I’m, uh...I’m actually working on my application to Starfleet Academy right now.”

“Really?” Foggy bounced in his seat, “That’s so cool!”

Matt looked a little confused, and Foggy wondered if the Universal Translator was struggling with the retro slang (it wouldn’t be the first time someone asked him what the ambient temperature had to do with what they were saying). But then a small smile pulled at the corner of Matt’s mouth and he replied, “I’m glad you think so. A lot of people around the bar seem to think it’s a joke for me even to try. And I was a little worried that all that talk about how open-minded and accepting the Federation is might be just that…talk.”

“Oh, well, I don’t think so. Though, as a human, I definitely come from a position of privilege on Earth,” Foggy admitted, “But there are all kinds at the Academy. Tellarites and Vulcans and Andorians, and…you’ve seen, er, noticed Commander Worf around here, right?” Matt nodded. “He was the first Klingon in Starfleet. And of course, you wouldn’t be the first Bajoran in Starfleet…” Foggy trailed off a little as he remembered who the most infamous Bajoran in Starfleet was.

“Ah, yes,” Matt tilted his head, a caustic edge to his tone, “you’re no doubt thinking of Ro Laren, who defected to the Maquis. I’m trying to avoid taking up the complications of that particular legacy.”

Foggy winced. “I’m sure you’ll be fine. I’m not so sure that I’ll be able to keep from putting my foot in my mouth again, however.”

Matt laughed, a surprised bark accompanied by a genuine smile that made Foggy’s heart skip a beat.

“You say the strangest things. Like that idiom you just used…the translator tried to rephrase it as ‘signifying awkwardness through improper pedal placement.’”

Foggy buried his face in his hands. “Oh my god. Well, the awkwardness part is right. I’m sorry. I grew up at the Utopia Planitia Shipyards and picked up a lot of old Earth sayings from the engineers. I’m always getting double takes from people when I tell them something’s ‘awesome.’”

“I’m assuming this ‘awesome’ has nothing to do with religiosity?

“Uh, no.”

Matt smiled again, leaning back in his chair. Foggy might have been imagining it, but Matt seemed like he was relaxing, at least by a fraction. “So,” he tilted his head toward Foggy, “Shipyards...does that mean you grew up in space?”

“Partly, yeah!” Foggy was all too happy to launch into story-telling mode, “The Yards are a really huge complex of drydocks and stations, and then there’s corresponding ground facilities on the planet below, Mars, which is the next planet past Earth from Sol. The surface is uninhabitable, and the planet-side habitats were boring, so I followed my parents up to the docks most days. I tripped up a lot of engineers while I was running around that place, and once, memorably, spilled my lunch all over a visiting Starfleet admiral. I thought I was going to be court-marshalled at the tender age of nine.”

That got a small laugh from Matt, as Foggy had hoped. “But that didn’t discourage you from joining up?”

“No, it didn’t,” Foggy paused. He didn’t want to steamroll Matt, but he looked like he was enjoying sitting back and soaking up Foggy’s cheerful babble. At least, Foggy hoped that’s what was happening.

“So, the Academy?” Matt prompted, leaning back until his chair was balancing on two legs, his hands clasped casually over his flat stomach.

Foggy grinned. “Yeah. I went to the Academy as soon as I could and loved every second of it. Loved it so much, in fact, that I decided to stick around for a few extra years to earn an advanced degree in Diplomacy, so I could join the Federation Diplomatic Corps. Most people wanted to fly off in a starship and explore strange new worlds, but growing up in the Yards, I’d already met tons of aliens and spent lots of time in space. I wasn’t in a hurry to go anywhere, and there’s always a need for diplomats on Earth. Though, I do think my mom’s still a little disappointed that I didn’t become a scientist, or better yet, an engineer. ‘Starships will always need fixing up, Franklin dear’, she’d tell me,” Foggy sighed and spun his glass idly. “But I preferred to work with my words, not my hands, which become very apparent after my first class in Warp Theory made me want to stick my head in a matter/anti-matter chamber. Interspecies Protocol, though, that was amazing. I’m sure you’ll have a great time at the Academy too, there’s something for everyone there,” Foggy concluded, tone encouraging. “And... wow, I’ve just been talking non-stop, I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s alright,” Matt assured him, “You’re interesting to listen to.”

Foggy blushed at that. “Well, still. How about you tell me a little about yourself? I mean, if you want to...”

Matt shrugged and the line of his shoulders tensed. “There’s not much to tell. You know about the Cardassian Occupation, I assume...” Foggy made a soft noise of assent. “So, you probably have an idea of it. My dad was in the Resistance, I never knew my mom. I grew up in the mountains, dodging phaser fire. Got caught running supplies with my old man, we were sent to a labor camp where we mined ore.” Matt’s lips twisted into a rueful grin as he said to Foggy, “You regret asking now?”

“Only if you don’t want to talk about it.”

Matt seemed to consider that response seriously. “I don’t mind,” he decided. “After all, the only things most people ask me about are if I’ll sleep with them, or how I lost my sight.”

“Well, then, I’ll be sure not to ask you either of those things,” Foggy replied.

Matt grinned again, this time without the dark undertone. “It might be alright, coming from you...”

Foggy wondered if the environmental controls were on the fritz, because it suddenly seemed way too hot. “Um, you mean, asking, uh, about...”

“My eyes, of course,” Matt answered smoothly, and Foggy was pretty sure he was enjoying driving up Foggy’s blood pressure. Foggy was, actually, okay with that. “Just so the curiosity doesn’t kill you—it was when I was twelve. After my dad died in the mines, the Cardassians took me and some other kids, tried to genetically alter us to make us better, sturdier slaves.”

“Oh god,” Foggy couldn’t help but choke out, the horrors of the Occupation much more real now, coming from Matt’s lips rather than the screen of a history padd.

“Yeah. Anyway, I lost my sight in the process, but I have...other sensory advantages.”

“Is that why you don’t have a VISOR?” Foggy asked, curious.

“Well, that and the fact Federation relief efforts only go so far, and fancy tech like VISORs doesn’t usually make the cut with limited replicator rations. Besides, I’ve been told the glasses suit me.”

“They really do…” Foggy agreed, unable to keep a dreamy note out of his voice. The glasses in question were a befuddling combination of adorable and sexy, perched snugly on the crinkled bridge of his Bajoran nose. The delicate metal frames drew subtle attention to the dark, almost iridescent metal of his earring, a simple chain that traced the edge of his earlobe. A lone flash of white hung at its base—bone? Foggy wondered—completing the ruggedly handsome picture.

“And,” Matt continued, either oblivious to or kindly ignoring Foggy’s rapturous gaze, “Even if I could get a VISOR, there would be someone else on Bajor who needs it more. Honestly, I really don’t need vision to navigate the world anyway.”

Foggy smiled, thumping the table with a spirited hand. “Yeah! You’re clearly killing it as is. And I mean, it’s not like all species even bother with sight anyway—I read about a species out in the Beta Quadrant that navigates by touch, taste, and a third sense that no Alpha Quadrant species have, that we think might involve fourth dimensional perception.”

“Wow,” Matt laughed, “I think that info-dumping about interspecies sensory differences is the best response I’ve ever gotten to telling someone about being blind.”

“I do my best,” Foggy beamed.

Matt seemed a little hesitant to ask his next question. “Is...is everyone at the Academy...like you?”

“Well...” Foggy had to laugh a little, “I like to think that there’s no one _quite_ like me. But if you mean is everyone...accepting of differences? Not absolutely everyone is, there’s always going to be a few assholes. But cooperation, working together towards bigger goals, knowing that everyone’s a unique part that fits into complex, greater whole? That’s what Starfleet’s all about.”

Foggy couldn’t get a read on Matt’s expression. He squirmed in his chair a little, wondering if he sounded like a naïve puppy, or worse, a recruitment advertisement. “It doesn’t always turn out so, so rainbows and butterflies as it sounds but…making the effort, you know? Trying to make the ideals a reality rather than a pledge on paper. It can’t happen if someone doesn’t believe, if no one tries. I dunno.” Foggy hunched his shoulders, wishing that a gravometric disturbance would manifest at his feet and suck him in, away from this conversation he was clearly botching.

“That’s…” Matt started but stopped again. Foggy winced and waited. “That’s beautiful,” Matt finally declared, and the fierceness in his voice knocked the breath clean from Foggy’s lungs.

“I…I don’t know if it’s…” Foggy stumbled, but Matt caught his verbal fumble and took off for the goalposts.

“It is. You believe in something larger than yourself. So do I. But the Prophets are far away…” Matt’s clever fingers danced in the direction of one of the huge, oval windows, where the wormhole-slash-celestial-temple hovered, invisible. “It’s up to us to do the work. We have to save ourselves. Just because this station isn’t called Terok Nor anymore doesn’t mean the battle’s won. That’s why I want to go to the Academy, I want to keep helping the change, keep making a difference. A difference where I don’t have to use cytromyaline micro-explosives or sex or my fists.”

Matt’s passion was all-encompassing and it swept Foggy along for the ride. “You were in the Resistance too, like your dad?” he asked, almost breathless, and _completely_ thoughtless.

Matt’s expression turned colder than an Andorian winter. Foggy wished again for an unexplained cosmic phenomenon to wash his atoms away, so he could stop saying _stupid things_ for _once in his life_.

“I…I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have—” Foggy tried to apologize, heart racing.

“No, I’m sorry,” Matt broke in, shaky yet firm. “I guess the instinct to deny, deny, deny is still ingrained pretty deep. I almost forget I don’t have a cover to protect anymore. I mean, I look around this place, and I can still remember…” Matt gestured sharply with one hand towards the bar, the rest of his body still held tense and still. “A member of my cell…he was suspected of assisting with a shuttle bombing and he tried to run…. But you can’t outrun a disruptor. They burned a hole right through him, right there. They left his corpse to rot for days as a message to the rest of us.”

He laughed, bitter, as he straightened his posture and adjusted his glasses. “And think, I’m still stuck here, just covered in glitter rather than dirt.”

Foggy was bereft, of words, of feelings. The worst thing that he’d ever seen was a construction accident at his parent’s workplace, an anti-grav unit that went on the fritz and took a man’s leg off when it crashed. But they were able to reattach it, and they took triple precautions to make sure nothing like that happened again. To see that violence on a regular basis, perpetuated with terrible purpose, he couldn’t imagine…

“It must be rather shocking to a human,” Matt noted, cold but not cruel, “the imperialism and blood and slavery rooted in the very molecules of this place. And what continues to this day, the objectification, the gambling, the unrestrained absorption of mind-altering substances…”

“I mean, yeah, honestly,” Foggy admitted, “It…it _should_ be shocking, shouldn’t it? Though, I guess, maybe it means we aren’t paying enough attention if we’re still shocked.”

“Maybe. But you’re right. You should be shocked. If you couldn’t feel that anymore, you wouldn’t be motivated to do anything about it.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For sharing that with me, despite my ignorance and…yeah. Just, thanks.”

Matt held the compliment awkwardly, like he’d been handed a squalling child and couldn’t find its parent. “I, um, you’re welcome. Didn’t expect…well.” He scratched his chin, and Foggy could almost see the emotional armor drop and then clang back into place. “Guess I should enjoy this newfound human popularity while it lasts. Bet the Academy will just _love_ an ex-terrorist clinging to a backwards religion who likes to yell about planetary socio-politics at mealtime.”

“Yeah, man, it’s great!” Foggy enthused, totally absent of irony. “You’ll totally fit in. Sure, the Academy can be clique-y, but most of those cliques care about intergalactic justice. I mean, that’s literally a major.”

“That’s good to know,” Matt said through a small smile, “All of it, I mean, I don’t know nearly as much as I want to—or as I probably should—considering my, uh, grand plan to get away from all this,” Matt tossed bored fingers in a semi-circle, gesturing to the drink-sticky tables and intoxicated gamblers around them.

“I’d be happy to talk more about it, the Academy, Starfleet, Earth, whatever!” Foggy tried not to sound like he was desperate to talk to Matt again before their first conversation even ended. He’d arrived not caring about anything other than the galaxy-changing diplomatic job in front of him, but now, it felt like the station wouldn’t keep spinning unless he got to see this incredible person again.

He aimed for suave in his next words and missed, landing near companionable, which was a decent bargain. “I don’t know if you’re in the market for a low-ranking, socially awkward Starfleet friend, but my asking price is very reasonable...”

“What price is that?” Matt laughed. 

“Maybe some company...we could get breakfast?” Foggy tapped his forefingers together hopefully, pulling out the smile his mother had once said could make the sun blush.

Matt did not blush. Emotions somersaulted across his face, too quick and foreign for Foggy to piece together. He finally replied, a touch of humor in his tone matched with chill, “You know, even Quark draws the line at paid company, though probably only because Odo would actually toss him out an airlock for it…”

It took a moment for the latinum to drop, and then Foggy sputtered, “Oh! No!” he waved his hands furiously, and mostly for his own benefit, “No no no, I just meant someone to _talk_ to. Really,” Foggy insisted at the disbelieving tilt to Matt’s eyebrows. “And I’m only suggesting breakfast because negotiations are scheduled for the rest of the day, and it really helps me if I can chat to someone before I go into work, you know, to get all the excess thoughts out of my head so I can focus...” Foggy’s words trickled to a halt as he realized that he wasn’t doing a good job of selling this breakfast date—not that it was a date, of course.

“I’m sorry,” Matt adjusted his glasses, looking like he’d absorbed some of Foggy’s awkward energy and it wasn’t agreeing with him, “You just seemed so nervous, I thought it was because you were....”

“Propositioning you?” Foggy coughed a laugh and the rising tension evaporated into only slightly fidgety affability when Matt laughed too, just as breathy. “Nah, man, I have a little more class than that. _Just_ a little. The tiniest amount of class sufficient to keep a person afloat. And wow, how nervous do I sound? Because no offense, but apparently a blind man can tell...”

“You weren’t that bad. Like I mentioned before, I have certain…abilities.”

Foggy waited patiently for about two milliseconds before nudging Matt’s foot with his own, under the table. “C’mon, spill! What’s the gift? Oh, dude, are you an empath?” Foggy guessed, “Because cards on the table, I had this Betazoid boyfriend once who told me that my feelings gave him a headache. Because they were like, too loud.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Matt said firmly, “I can’t imagine who could sense your feelings and think themselves anything less than lucky.”

“Oh,” Foggy said, so soft it should’ve been swept away by the babble of conversation and machinery, “that’s…wow.”

“I’m not an empath,” Matt blundered on in a hurry, like he wanted to run over his last words with new ones before they could take root, “I can just hear things. Lots of things, like heartbeats and lungs and stomachs—can smell them too. All my senses, the ones I’ve got left anyway, have been heightened since…well, _since_. I feel the microshifts in the station’s artificial gravity and the vibrations of ships docking on the far pylons, I smell the sex people are having in the holosuites and what kind of medicine the doctors are doling out in sickbay, I can taste when they’ve put out fresh Jumja on the promenade and hear the gagh squirming on plates at the Klingon restaurant.”

“That’s…amazing.” Foggy felt the word paled in comparison to what Matt was telling him.

“Most people react a little differently to that revelation.”

“Well—and I say this in the humblest way possible—I’m not most people.”

Matt laughed, and it was so free and almost goofy that it made Foggy’s heart clench. He wondered if Matt could hear that sound.

“Yeah,” Matt said, thoughtfully, “I guess you Starfleet types _have_ to be open-minded, serving with telepaths like Betazoids and Vulcans.”

“I mean, that’s the ideal. But I mostly just meant that it’s cool. You’re cool.”

That startled blink again. What kind of people was Matt dealing with on a daily basis that such basic courtesy threw him for a loop?

“It’s, um, it’s sweet,” Matt concluded, tapping the table with a nervous duet of fingers, “That your first thought is that I’m ‘cool’ and not ‘useful.’”

“Useful?” Foggy echoed, not following.

“Never mind,” Matt ducked his head, “that’s a conversation for another time.”

“So…there’ll be another time?” Foggy prompted, hopeful once more.

Matt smiled, incandescent. The hideous red neon lining every inch of the bar had nothing on his radiance. “Yeah. Breakfast sounds good. I’d recommend the Replimat for a newcomer—replicated food is nothing special, but trust me, you don’t want to get adventurous at a Promenade restaurant before a big day.”

“I do trust you. And replicated waffles will do me just fine.”

“Waffles?” Matt blinked behind his glasses, “That sounds…not like food.”

“Oh, it’s food,” Foggy assured him, “it is some of Earth’s finest cuisine.”

“Really?”

“Well, maybe not _really_ , but they’re one of my favorites,” Foggy admitted.

Matt laughed again but it turned into a yawn halfway through. The ungainly stretch of his jaw was the closest to klutzy the elegant Dabo boy had come all night, and Foggy realized what a colossal asshole he was being, keeping the poor guy out so late after his shift.

“Oh shit, I am being a colossal asshole,” Foggy declared, realizing belatedly that he should perhaps have censored the thought before releasing it, “I mean, you must be beat. Your shift was over forever ago, I should…”

“I mean, yeah,” Matt grinned, “we should both be getting some sleep. But this is a lot more fun.”

“I’m so glad you think so, because I was worried you were just being nice after Dax basically dumped me in your lap.”

“You’re welcome in my lap anytime,” Matt waggled his eyebrows and Foggy burst out laughing. He understood, again, why so many people would happily hand over everything they had when this man was at the Wheel. “But I don’t want to keep you from settling into the station’s rhythm. I think I heard somewhere that Earth doesn’t have as many hours in its day, only 25?”

“Even worse, just 24.”

Matt whistled under his breath. “Wow. That’s gonna take getting used to when—or if—I go to Earth.”

“When,” Foggy confirmed, “And gee, lucky me, I get an extra two hours that I never had before! I’m sure I’ll squander them immediately.”

“I’d recommend squandering your first extra hours on sleep,” Matt said as he stood, “C’mon, I’ll walk you to the turbolift.”

Foggy followed Matt out of the bar’s dingy charm. They walked just a touch closer than Foggy usually would with someone he’d just met. His elbow tingled with electricity every time it brushed Matt’s, and Foggy wondered if his super-senses could pick that up—probably they could. But so far, Matt had been really chill about Foggy’s out-of-control crush. Practice, I guess, Foggy concluded rather gloomily.

He caught sight of some of the places Matt had mentioned as they journeyed down the Promenade, restaurants, the medical bay, closed-up stores. They passed a lanky human in Science blues loitering outside a tailor’s shop. He burst into a smile as the proprietor exited, a Cardassian dressed in an outfit whose pattern was so vividly reminiscent of a watermelon, Foggy couldn’t help but stare.

“Good evening,” the brightly dressed newcomer addressed Matt and Foggy as they passed, offering a gracious wave.

“Evening,” Matt bit out through a curled lip. Foggy was briefly nonplussed, exchanging a nod with his Starfleet colleague, before realizing this was the first Cardassian he’d spotted on the station. Thinking back to the brutal memories of that people’s violence that Matt had shared with him earlier, Foggy upgraded his snap judgement of Matt’s behavior from “slightly rude” to “vaguely saintlike.”

“It takes all sorts,” Matt answered Foggy’s silent contemplation with a bitter grin. “Did I use that phrase right? Jadzia taught it to me once.”

“Yeah, spot-on.”

“It’s a good way to think about it,” Matt continued, “and it fits well with the teachings of the Prophets. Even the Cardassians have their place. I have to remind myself of that every day.” Matt slowed, apparently instinctively, as they neared a beautifully sculpted round door from which light and incense wafted gently.

“Vedek Lantom,” Matt gave a bow to a stooped man dressed in flowing orange robes as they passed

“Mr. Murdoq,” the Vedek, as Matt had addressed him (Foggy was pretty sure that was some sort of religious title), gave them a kind smile from where he stood a quiet vigil at the gate of the temple.

Foggy wasn’t religious and wasn’t particularly familiar with religion in anything but an abstract sense, but he was moved by the sense of peace that washed over Matt as he breathed in the calm of his place of worship.

“Well, here we are,” Matt announced as a small grey platform came into view just beyond the temple.

“That’s the turbolift,” Foggy agreed.

“It sure is.”

“I guess I’ll…see you tomorrow.” Foggy offered the traditional pre-goodbye line, but his feet didn’t seem interested in moving.

“You know, things are different here on Deep Space Nine,” Matt said, apropos of nothing Foggy could follow.

“Uh huh…”

“The rules are more…bendable.” Matt grinned, mouth red and dangerous. “People do things they wouldn’t do elsewhere. Doctors carry on affairs with retired Cardassian spies. Captains fist-fight omnipotent tricksters. A seven-hundred-year-old alien regularly cleans out the barkeep at their weekly gambling session.”

“Wow.” Foggy wanted to know more about _all_ of that.

“So, that’s all to say,” Matt slipped closer, one hand alighting on Foggy’s shoulder, “would it break your precious protocols if I did this?”

He darted forward and kissed Foggy once, lightly, on the lips, before he could get an answer.

“Oh!” Foggy startled, face heating. “I mean, no, that’s…but I didn’t think…I would never assume _you_ …” He didn’t know what he was saying, his head was spinning faster than Bajor orbiting its sun.

“I know. That’s why I wanted to do it. Because you’d never… _assume_.”

Matt chucked Foggy’s chin once before stepping away. “I’ll see you tomorrow, lieutenant.”

Foggy responded following a significant brain-rebooting delay: “See ya tomorrow!” He smiled at Matt’s gorgeous retreating back, uncaring how silly and lovestruck he must look.

So, the station operated on Bajor’s 26-hour-day, huh? That was good. He’d need every minute of those extra hours. As Foggy took the turbolift out to the habitat ring, he made a silent promise to buy Jadzia Dax a whole barrel of bloodwine as thanks—for the gift of meeting Matt, it was the least he could do.

**Author's Note:**

> It’s over! Or, is it? What drama may these Klingon negotiations bring? Does Daredevil prowl the promenade? Are Elektra and Kira old Resistance pals? Does Jake get to meet his journalistic hero Karen Page, ace reporter for The Galactic Bulletin?? Do Foggy & Sisko ever get to talk about baseball??? These ridiculous questions and more live rent free in my brain 24/7 (or 26/7, as it may be).
> 
> Lemme know if you enjoyed this story, and if you have some DD/DS9 fusion feels of your own! <3


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